Page 42 of The Lipstick Flip

It was Christmas Eve.

And it was getting dark.

“Shit,” I said and hurried inside.

Shower, change, and then haul ass over to the Airbnb where Noah’s parents were staying. Presents—shit! Maybe I could stop and pick up a bottle of wine. Was I supposed to bring something? A dessert?

I was so caught up in those thoughts that I didn’t notice the tree until I was halfway across the living room.

Multicolored lights glowed on every branch, surrounded by ornaments and bows, all of them understated, all of them classic pieces in traditional greens and reds. It was simple. It was beautiful. And a weird, choked laugh escaped me because Noah had been telling me for three days that the theme for this year’s tree was Trixie Mattel, and when I said I didn’t know what that meant, he’d just called my fucking bluff.

A bottle of wine wasn’t going to do it.

I took the stairs two at a time. Before I could let myself think about it too much, I started pulling out cardboard boxes. The ones in the back, the ones I hadn’t needed to open since the divorce.

It was still there: the little velvet box.

Thank God that somebody, somewhere realized men needed help wrapping gifts, because I still had the bag from Ed’s Christmas gift—we’d gotten lunch a couple of weeks before, and the bag had held cheese and crackers and summer sausage, which was a pretty good gift. I put the velvet box in the bag. I returned the tissue paper. I tried to fluff it, realized I had no idea what I was doing, and stopped. My stomach was dropping like—well, if it were something else tonight, something that wasn’t about Noah, I would have said I was nervous.

Be cool, I told myself. Told myself everything was going to be all right.

All I had to do was stay calm and play referee; you could always count on Noah’s family to run interference.

14

The house wasn’t just a house, of course. That wasn’t Jonathan’s style. It was some kind of mini-mansion that was supposed to look like a log cabin. It didn’t. Look like a log cabin, I mean. It had the log siding, sure. But that was where the resemblance stopped. It was bigger, for one thing—built in a wide vee, with a circular drive that followed the length of the building. And the windows for another. They were huge, and they were everywhere, filled with wreaths and bows and a warm glow. An even bigger wreath hung on the door.

Something about parking the truck front and center seemed like a jackass move, so I left it at the end of the drive and trudged the rest of the way on foot. Noah’s gift swung from one hand. In the other, I carried the bottle of wine—yeah, I’d stopped, because I had to have something. The night was clear. The stars looked like little chipped-out spots in the dark. No wind, nothing, but when I turned my head, the cold felt sharp enough to cut my cheek.

I knocked. I waited. A house like this, obviously you were going to wait.

Noah answered a moment later. He wore a fuzzy red-and-green sweater over a button-up, houndstooth trousers, and soft-looking mocs that had probably cost a fortune. He was smiling, but it was the family-good-times smile, and I thought maybe, if he hadn’t been smiling, he would have looked—I don’t know. Tired. Or maybe—and this thought darted deep underwater—like he wanted to cry.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hi, Howie. Merry Christmas Eve.” He took the gift bag and said, “What’s this?”

“It’s your Christmas present, dingus.”

For a moment, the smile lifted, and I thought of how a hawk rose on thermals. “Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Howard Cartwright. That’s so lovely. You didn’t have to do that.”

Never, in the history of the world, had there been a right answer to that, so I stuck my hands in my pockets.

“Come in—”

“I wanted to,” I blurted. Because apparently there was a right answer. I just thought of it three seconds too late like a jackass. Something changed in Noah’s eyes, and I realized he thought I was responding to the invitation. “The gift. I wanted to.”

“Thank you,” he said in a different tone.

And when I stepped inside, he stretched up to buss my cheek.

It happened so quickly—and was over so quickly—that I didn’t have time to respond. Noah was already moving around me to shut the door, and then helping me out of my coat—or trying to, anyway, now that he had the gift bag in one hand and the wine in the other—and so instead of having to say anything about the kiss or do anything or think anything, I heard myself saying, “Get your mitts off me; I got it.”

Which just made Noah laugh, but at least he let me take off my own coat.

Inside, the house looked as ritzy as I’d expected: plush sofas in neutrals, reclaimed-wood tables and chairs, natural stone accents. But cold, too. The art on the walls made me think of Noah, actually. Of the holiday tour. How careful he was in his choices, how thoughtful. How even for a house he wasn’t living in, he’d taken time to pick pieces of art that felt meaningful and appropriate and…and real, I guess. The stuff on these walls, on the other hand, made me think of sleeping in a motel.

We walked deeper into the house. The living room had a wall of windows that looked out on a black lake. The lights were turned down low, here, and a Christmas tree was glowing, and from somewhere else in the house came the rumble of Jonathan’s voice. Noah set the gift bag under the tree and adjusted his grip on the bottle of wine. His shoulders were tight, and he seemed to be hesitating.